The ABC Canterbury Tales
by ferain1832
Summary: The Friends of the ABC gather to celebrate Christmas. A resolution is made: to entertain the others, each will tell a romantic story from their past - a success or a failure, happy or bittersweet.
1. Enjolras's Tale

For once, the reason for the boisterous meeting at the back room of the Café Musain was not political, neither did the song that caused the worn out Louison to wince contain the words _Patrie_ or _Liberté_. Instead:

"Si-i-i-i-lent ni-i-i-i-ght… Ho-o-o-o-ly ni-i-i-i-i-ght!"

"Grantaire, Grantaire, please! My ears!"

"Don't depress art, Bossuet," Grantaire exclaimed. "Oppress, I mean. Or suppress…"

"We know what you mean, Grantaire," Courfeyrac laughed. His top hat, perching on his painfully curled head at a rakish angle, was shiny enough to reflect the candle-bearing skulls placed at random corners of the room.

"Anyway, it is _my_ ears that you depress, oppress and suppress," Prouvaire added, throwing up his hands in complaint. "I've never heard anything more out of tune."

"Moreover, Grantaire," another voice said, quiet and musical, causing the former to flinch and lose at least half of his drunkenness all at once, "we would rather this night was a little more silent than you make it."

Enjolras was standing at the doorway, with Combeferre at his side. Instead of the usual monochrome, his waistcoat was what Feuilly would describe as a deep sea blue with a matching cravat.

Grantaire looked put down. "I'll sing something else," he muttered. "You only have to ask. Do you want _La Marseillaise_? I've got it off by heart, every word, you know. Or maybe - "

"Today is the only day you could sing it and get arrested only for your drunkeness," Combeferre said, following Enjolras in. "Speaking of which, you ought to rein yourself in a little. It's only 8 o'clock and you've already - "

"Run through half of the supplies," Courfeyrac laughed. "We've had to send Joly for more."

"And here I am!" Joly called out, stumbling backwards through the door. Bahorel appeared next, supporting one end of a wooden box filled with wine bottles. "Bossuet, you ought to have helped us. There's an equivalent of thirty guns in weight here."

"My friend," Bossuet laughed, "you know that I am the unluckiest man in France. I would have broken every single bottle and cut myself with the shards."

"That may not have been so unlucky," said Enjolras, now sitting down in an armchair close to the fireplace. "There's enough wine there for the entire Faubourg Saint-Antoine."

"Particularly if you give them the disgraceful amount of money this must have cost," Feuilly exclaimed, emerging from behind Prouvaire. "There are people that could make a feast with the price of one bottle! This is just like - "

"Feuilly, I've passed by a little beggar girl on my way here," Courfeyrac struck in, seeing Enjolras's eyes light up with dangerous, party-spoiling enthusiasm. "I don't know if she was Polish or not, but I did in fact give her the price of one bottle."

"So she will make herself a feast if she wants," Joly summed up. "_Messieurs_, we are now all here. Therefore, chairs, everyone, and let the festivities begin!"

"You know," Courfeyrac called out to Enjolras over the scraping of furniture being moved closer to the fireplace, "that really is a dashing cravat. So dashing, in fact, that I'm surprised to see it on you."

"My tailor picked it out," Enjolras said nonchalantly.

"He has excellent taste," Prouvaire said. "It fits your eyes perfectly."

"Beg to differ," Grantaire mumbled, struggling against Combeferre who was firmly blocking the path to a chair nearest to Enjolras. "The fellow's blind. His eyes are lighter and brighter. That colour's only good to paint dead bodies. Any grisette would know better."

Prouvaire's delicate cheeks reddened. "What do you know about dead bodies? I assure you - "

"Speaking of that," Courfeyrac hurried to interrupt, slipping into the defended chair, "I met the prettiest little thing the other day. Exquisite, I tell you."

"And did you add her to your collection?" Bahorel smirked.

"I'm in the process of cataloguing," Courfeyrac replied, winking suggestively amidst general laughter. "But before I tell you more, I propose a toast. Louison, glasses, please! Yes, Enjolras, even you."

"Only if you toast the Republic."

"You could interpret it that way if you want," Courfeyrac laughed. "The toast is this - to the charming ladies in our lives!"

"In our leader's case," Bossuet said, "there is only one cruel dame that lays a claim to his heart - the unsurpassable Patria."

"Do not speak the name idly, Bossuet," Enjolras retorted. "She deserves infinitely more respect than that."

Still, he raised the glass to his lips and the others followed suit with a cheer, Grantaire's naturally the loudest.

"Now, _messieurs_," Courfeyrac resumed after downing his glass, "I know you are all dying to hear about my latest addition - "

"I thought you were still cataloguing," Joly exclaimed, flushed and reaching to refill his glass.

"Sure, but I've already entered most of the details, you know. However!" Courfeyrac waved his glass to regain silence. "I propose we all tell a little tale of our _amours_, recent or distant, successful or dismal failures, starting of course with the first among us."

He turned to Enjolras, whose eyes glinted with surprise, darkened by the sip of wine he had drunk.

"You'd be disappointed," he said, "for I have nothing to tell."

"Surely," Courfeyrac cried out, "surely! I cannot believe it. There must be a little something even in your shiningly pure past. One tiny _aventure_? Passion? Interest?"

"None."

"I refuse to believe that you have never even kissed anyone," Courfeyrac exclaimed, disappointed.

"Well, I did not say that."

Whispers, exclamations and laughter scurried around the circle of chairs. Only Combeferre did not appear surprised.

"So!" Courfeyrac shook his glass triumphantly. "Who was the lucky recipient?"

Enjolras's face sombered a few degrees, provoking a concerned, barely perceptible raised eyebrow from Combeferre. Enjolras gave a tiny smile in response.

"A young lady who at that time was to be my bride."

Joly choked on his drink, Bossuet patted his back and caught his own glass with his elbow, causing it to fly onto the floor and shatter.

"D-don't touch that, my friend," Joly croaked out between coughs, "glass in your bloodstream is horrible. It will rush straight to your heart and pierce it."

"Actually," Combeferre said, adjusting his glasses, "the natural healing process is aimed at getting small intrusive objects out of the body, not into the main arteries."

Meanwhile Prouvaire clasped his hands together and gazed at Enjolras with delight.

"That is so romantic," he cooed, "and so tragic. I always was convinced that you too have tasted the fruits of love. Tell me everything, _mon ami_, and perhaps it isn't too late to bring the damsel back."

Courfeyrac was somewhat embarrased to have brought up a delicate subject. "My father did mention that your folks wanted to marry you off to some daughter of a lifelong friend of theirs. But I thought it was just a rumour."

"It was a long time ago," Enjolras said in a decisive tone. "There is no need to bring anyone back. In fact," - and Combeferre was glad to see a smile playing on his lips - "I think it is above all the lady that benefited from the affair being called off."

OOO

"Well, Michel? I think that I have made my wishes plain."

"You have, _mon père_."

"Then what is the issue? I do not understand it. The girl is absolutely enamoured with you and she is a rare beauty. In fact," his father said, his eyes moistening imperceptibly, "the only woman more beautiful than Isabelle that I ever knew was your poor mother."

"Yes, _mon père_." They were in his father's office and right above the mantlepiece there was a portrait to illustrate the truth of his words.

"Moreover, you know very well that it was your mother's dying wish to have our two families unite."

"I know that," Enjolras said dryly. Not one to mince his words, he decided to speak to the point. "Father, you yourself would not want me to marry someone I do not love."

The argument was a strong one with Monsieur Enjolras Sr. The man looked down at his papers, not seeing any of them, then up again at his son, so similar to himself in all but the most delicate features and the resolute expression that was currently displayed on his face.

"There is no one you will grow to love so quickly as Isabelle,' he said at last. "Of course, you don't have to, and won't, marry straight away. Law school first, naturally, then the licence - "

"Why are we discussing this now, then?"

"Isn't it best to have these things sorted out in advance, before you go off to Paris? And then, three years is nothing for a young man, but for a girl that is a precisely the period in which to find a husband."

"_Mon père_, I don't want to get married at all," Enjolras interrupted.

"At all?" The words made his father drop his pen. "But Michel, think! You are the last descendant of both our families. Your poor sister died childless, you know that. Will you leave no earthly reminder of your mother? Will you deprive me of grandchildren?"

Enjolras bowed his head, saying nothing.

That was the only verbal dispute he had ever lost. Even at seventeen his powers of rhetoric were sure to carry him off victorious, whatever topic was being discussed. Any topic but this one. Women, romance, marriage, these concepts Enjolras never thought about, had no words to express his opinion of them, had no opinion at all.

That made his task both impossibly hard and impossibly easy when he found himself face to face with Isabelle, alone, in a perfect position to examine her famed golden curls, pale blue eyes and pouting lips. Was she supposed to be beautiful? Enjolras rather thought she looked like an overgrown doll.

"That opera was divine, wasn't it?" she was saying in a delicate, breathy voice. "Carlotta's voice, simply heavenly. And have you seen Madame Dujardin's new baby? Such a little angel. It is so pleasant to care for babies, isn't it?"

What kind of life would they have together? What of Robespierre? What of France? Will she ever ask him what he thought of the newest appointments in the King's governement? Will she listen to him talking about Rousseau? Did she know who Rousseau _was_? And will she afford a single glance to the beggars thronging around her carriage? Would she know the latest price of bread? Would she care? Will she throw a sou to the little ragged girl on the corner, curl her lip in disdainful pity and lift her skirts an inch to avoid the mud?

To stop the torrent of increasingly painful images, Enjolras decided to do what needed to be done.

"Will you marry me?"

A little abrupt, judging by the shocked expression in the girl's pale eyes, but Enjolras was and would forever remain oblivious to the fact that "Such a charming poodle!" is not usually followed by a remark of that nature. It was hardly a grievous fault, however, seeing as immediately shock turned into delight.

"I…"

The eyelashes fluttered in a carefully practiced motion, the lips gathered into a pout.

"I will."

Enjolras was the most honourable of men. If the answer had been no, he would have used all his powers of persuasion to change it to a yes. Once decided, and before Combeferre to soften his determination a little, he would die or achieve that which he has agreed to do.

However, he was also one of the most innocent of men. It took a pointed flash from Isabelle's eyes to make realise that the pout signalled an expectation of a forthcoming kiss.

If one calls himself a Republican, one must read Rousseau. If one fights at barricades, one must kill the enemy. If one is proposing marriage, therefore, one must kiss the bride.

Not daring to close his eyes in case he missed the target, Enjolras inclined his head and kissed her.

He did not regret it. He never regretted anything. He only wished the circumstances had never pushed him to do it.

He never regretted anything except that one decision. Talented as he was, Enjolras would have made a terrible actor. He never said anything except that which he believed in. Otherwise he remained silent.

Silent, as he was on his first Christmas holiday back in Aix, fresh from Paris with its tall buildings, mountains of revolutionary books, enough starving little girls to people a village.

Isabelle took a bite off a brioche, then leaned to his ear.

"Michel," she whispered, caressing a blond lock, tugging it rather painfully. "Do you love me?"

Enjolras remained silent. Instead the words of another brioche-loving woman echoed in his ears.

"_They don't have bread? Let them eat cakes!_"

By the time that his father came to visit him in Paris at the end of the summer term, Enjolras had decided on everything.

"I cannot do it, father. Forgive me."

And it was worth it, in the end, even though the words "Never be seen in my house again!" were spoken. It was worth it, because Enjolras had learnt an important lesson. Never to do anything that he didn't believe was right.

Moreover, it was a week afterwards that he had met Combeferre.

OOO

"Well," Courfeyrac laughed, "not all girls like their husbands to take them to revolutionary meetings instead of the theatre."

"Damned woman doesn't know what's good for her," Grantaire mumbled. Enjolras overheard the remark, took it the wrong way and threw him a surprised smile that made Grantaire redden with pleasure.

"So," Bahorel said, "who's next?"

"Clockwise, it's Courfeyrac," Joly said. "Come, _mon ami_, we're all dying to hear about your cataloguing!"

"Now, now," Courfeyrac answered with a sly smile, "before we start on this ravishing tale we must have another round of drinks, for I shall surely require a toast for this beautiful maiden before the end of it."


	2. Courfeyrac's Tale

_"Now, now," Courfeyrac answered with a sly smile, "before we start on this ravishing tale we must have another round of drinks, for I shall surely require a toast for this beautiful maiden before the end of it."_

The glasses were refilled, all except Enjolras's almost full one.

"See," Bossuet said, nodding to the pile of empty bottles on the floor, "I was only too right to send for more."

"Those glasses are too large," Prouvaire said in a lugubre voice. "We need to use skulls instead, like Byron. Much more economical."

"And how precisely do you drink from skulls, my dear Jehan?"

"You saw off the top, Eagle, and you sip, like from a quaich."

"A what?"

"Never mind," Bahorel said, putting an arm around Prouvaire's thin shoulders. "Courfeyrac, proceed. Who is this new artifact?"

"A little factory girl from the Gobelins," Courfeyrac announced. "Possibly the finest one in my entire catalogue."

Bahorel's laughter filled the entire room while Feuilly looked distinctly uneasy.

"What is her name?" The tone was a little too defensive for such a simple question.

"Virginie." Then, quieter: "Why, have you any particular interest in that area?"

"Oh no," Feuilly hurried to say, seemingly relieved. "None at all."

"I didn't think factory girls were your style," Bahorel said, still laughing. "I'd have sworn the vast majority of your collection comprises actresses, opera singers and the like. The odd seamstress or lacemaker, maybe. But a factory girl? Are they easier to get?"

"Not at all," cried Courfeyrac, looking hurt. "Actresses are more expensive to upkeep but factory girls won't even let you come near them. Some of them at least."

"That is because they have a few steps less to fall than actresses," Combeferre said seriously. "Their work is what keeps them from the street. See that you do not ruin this Virginie of yours."

"It is she that will ruin me," Courfeyrac sighed. "You may laugh all you like, Bahorel, but I am really dreadfully in love with her."

Now it was Bossuet that burst out laughing. As he was balancing back on his chair at that very moment, he tumbled straight off it, hitting his head on a stray skull behind him.

"Damn your blasted skulls, Prouvaire," he moaned, rubbing his own.

"Well, you could," Prouvaire agreed with an earnest smile, "I'm not sure what the effects would be, I fear that it might start howling and Enjolras won't like that in the middle of the meetings…"

Enjolras didn't seem to have been listening but now he turned his head back to the group. "It would be unfortunate, yes," he said calmly, "but I will tolerate a little rage if it is directed at the right target. Are your skulls Republican?"

"Well, I don't have precise sources but that one seems to have belonged to one Etienne Bonnet, a haberdasher, I think he died at the storming of the Bastille… No, Bossuet, don't kick Etienne!"

Combeferre stood up, stooped to pick up the leering remains of Etienne, handed them to Prouvaire who immediately began to cradle it, and regained his seat with the same stubbornly calm expression.

Bossuet clambered back up his feet. "Well then, Courfeyrac?"

OOO

If the whole truth was to be spoken, Courfeyrac had not entered almost all the details into his catalogue regarding the little factory girl from the Gobelins. In fact, if one spoke with no reservation at all, the cataloguing process has barely progressed and the little factory girl was really a major stumbling block.

Moreover, it was mostly to cover up his own growing unease that Courfeyrac spoke so little of the girl. It was a frightful tangle that he had found himself and the worst thing was that the root of the problem refused to even look at him.

What first drew his attention were the hands. It was quite by chance that Courfeyrac found himself strolling up the nave of the Église Saint-Médard on that cold December day. He had agreed to meet up with Enjolras on the steps of the Val-de-Grâce Hospital where they would wait together for Combeferre.

Enjolras's 2nd-in-command had been buried up to his neck in bodies to dissect lately and had to manage his time very carefully if he was to be as involved in the Revolution as he had been before. Courfeyrac had come a little early and the drizzle was threatening his new hat, so he decided to take cover inside the church, quite empty at this time of day.

Empty, except a sole kneeling figure at the steps leading to the altar. As Courfeyrac came closer, he saw that it was a girl, a young one, dressed in a deplorable cotton blouse and a brown skirt with clunky boots to match. The neck was slender and the incline rather elegant, so Courfeyrac took a longer look, coming sofly behind her.

It was then that he saw the hands, clasped in a devout pose. Not rough, thick hands, reddened by cold and wear, hardened by manual labour; not the clumsy, chapped fingers to match the clothes. Instead they were slim, graceful and white, with fingernails that have been well cared for, only marred by a series of grazes and chafes that one would expect to see on hands that have never worked before.

She was deep in prayer and only stirred when Courfeyrac's heels clicked too loudly on the marble floor. Then she flinched as strongly as if he had grasped her by the shoulder and turned around, a terrified expression in her doe-like brown eyes.

"Pardon me, _mademoiselle_," Courfeyrac said with a courteous smile, bowing slightly. "I did not mean to frighten you."

The girl jumped up to her feet, chestnut curls bouncing off her shoulders, remained immobile for a few more seconds, then rushed past him and down the nave.

"_Mademoiselle_!"

It was too late. The slim white-and-brown figure had already disappeared, the heavy doors of the church clanging shut behind her.

Courfeyrac remained rooted to the spot, shocked to the core. Never before in his entire life as long as he could remember did his appearance caused such a reaction.

He was still a little stunned even as he was pacing up and down before the doors of the Val-de-Grâce, hoping that not standing still would stop the drizzle-turned-sleet from landing on his new top hat.

"Say, Enjolras," he began, knowing full well that he was asking the wrong person, "is there something wrong with how I look today?"

"Nothing," the blond replied calmly, standing motionless as the sleet collected on the brim of his own top hat.

"Are you sure?"

Enjolras inclined his head to one side, scanning Courfeyrac from head to toe. "Well…" he drew out eventually, "is your cravat new?"

"Oh, don't be silly. It's seven months old." Was that the reason? It was really quite out of fashion by now, but they were going into a poor _faubourg_ and Courfeyrac wanted to be inconspicious. It was dangerous enough having Enjolras with them, who would attract the attention of every female in the area even wearing nothing but a potato sack. But then, the girl was clearly poor, she wouldn't know the latest fashions; while the colour, a coral pink, suited Courfeyrac perfectly.

Enjolras tapped him on the shoulder. "There's Combeferre. Let's go."

Courfeyrac cheered up a little when they were doing their rounds in front of the Gobelins factory and among the small crowd gathered around them there were several women that clearly weren't terrified at the sight of him.

"… Which is why, _citoyens_," Enjolras was finishing his speech, "it is our shared duty to relieve our Patria from the shackles that the Orleanist barbarians have newly placed upon her. It is in our hands to establish, once and for all, liberty, equality and fraternity, for man and woman alike, when the right time comes. _Vive la Republique!_"

"_Vive la Republique!_"

The audience thronged around them, humming happily. Courfeyrac delved into his jacket for the few leaflets they had thought it prudent to bring. It was then that he glimpsed another spectacle playing itself out just within the Gobelins gate.

"And where have you been all morning, you little idler?" a screeching voice of an old woman reached his ears. "Virginie Ledoyen, do you want to lose this position?"

"Please, _madame_," a quiet, delicate voice answered, "it's just that my hands - "

"Nonsense!"

The old hag added a few more biting words, then turned on her heels and marched back inside the factory. The rebuked 'little idler' stumbled out of the gate and found herself face to face with Courfeyrac.

"We meet again, Mademoiselle Ledoyen," he drew out in his most charming voice. "Would you like a leaflet?"

The girl - in his eyes she was already Virginie - stopped short and gazed at him with terror. "What do you want from me, _monsieur_? Why are you following me?"

"Really, _mademoiselle_, it is entirely by the strange working of Fate that we have met twice already. Clearly the gods intend it."

Virginie made a movement as if to dash away and Courfeyrac permitted himself the liberty of clutching her wrist. He wasn't going to count on Fate to find her a third time.

"What I should like to know, _mademoiselle_, is why you are so alarmed at my presence. Is something the matter? My friends and myself would be glad to help - "

"Do not concern yourself with me, _monsieur_," she said. Her arm was very cold. "I - "

"Courfeyrac!"

Enjolras's stern tone and the cold stare Courfeyrac could feel even with his back turned were too much for the gazelle he was attempting to capture. With one swift movement she freed herself from his hold and fled back to the factory.

"Really, Courfeyrac," Combeferre said, placing a hand on his shoulder, "there's a time and place for everything."

"And now," Enjolras added, taking his other arm, "remember you're already on a date. Patria is waiting."

OOO

"That girl is something unusual, I tell you," Courfeyrac said. "I'm sure that she is hiding some secret. No one with a clear past can be so flighty."

"Well," Joly sighed, "maybe she has a child and the little thing is terribly ill. Children are so fragile, you know. _Bronchiolitis_, _candidiasis_, _molluscum contagiosum_, take your pick. That sort of thing would strain anyone's nerves."

"She didn't look old enough for a dying child," Courfeyrac shrugged his shoulders. "And then, why would she run from me?"

"She might be afraid of robbers," Bossuet suggested.

"Or she might be starving to the extent that she has hallucinations," Feuilly said gloomily.

"But her hands," Courfeyrac exclaimed, "that was the strangest thing! They weren't at all like a working class girl's hands. Such hands you see in elbow-length laced gloves."

Prouvaire gazed dreamily into the fireplace. "None of you understand," he drew out, "and then it is as plain as an Egyptian hieroglyph. The truth of the matter is that the girl ran away from home. The reasons could be multiple - possession by spirits, a malignant alignment of the planets or even a murderous cousin, but I think it likeliest that she is simply trying to escape an unwelcome suitor that her heart could never accept. The girl is nobility, naturally, that would explain the hands, and she is being forced into an arranged and possibly criminal - "

The rest was obscured by general laughter. Even Enjolras hid a smile as he turned back to the fireplace.

"What a load of nonsense," Grantaire sneered. "Might as well be a nymph or a Vestal Virgin."

"I assure you all," Prouvaire flamed up once more, "that just a month ago I read in the newspapers of the strange disappearance - "

"Well, whatever it is," Courfeyrac hurried to intervene, "all I know is that I'm rather enchanted by her and that her secret won't remain a secret for very long if I can help it."

"Don't forget to tell us," Bossuet said, reaching out for the bottle and elbowing Combeferre in the process, for once in his life intentionally. "Your turn now."

Combeferre blushed imperceptibly and looked away. "Wouldn't you rather hear about my ant farm?"

Prouvaire's eyes lit up. "Oh yes! I forgot to tell you, Combeferre. Loys and Phellipet are expecting an addition to their family."

Bossuet hid his face in Joly's sleeve. "Who and who?"

"The two ants that Combeferre gave me, of course," Prouvaire beamed.

"Prouvaire, these two ants are male," Combeferre said judiciously. "They cannot be expecting any addition to their family."

"Well, they must be somehow, because I know for a fact both of them disdain Genevote. They nearly killed her a few times, I had to put them into the corner several times during the night."

Courfeyrac smirked. "Looks like one of them made up with the lady behind the other's back. So what about that story, Combeferre?"


	3. Combeferre's Tale

_Courfeyrac smirked. "Looks like one of them made up with the lady behind the other's back. So what about that story, Combeferre?"_

"There are many admirable women in the world," Combeferre said. "Émilie du Châtelet, the translator of Newton's _Principia Mathematica_, for example, or Christine de Pizan, I was always rather fond of her."

"She is enchanting," Prouvaire sighed. "The most exquisite poetess in the whole 14th century. Yet I was always rather torn between her and Petrarch's Laura. A woman who inspired such beautiful poetry must have been herself a beautiful soul."

"What about Dante's Beatrice?" Courfeyrac pitched in. "Not every day do you have a woman showing you around Purgatory and Heaven."

"They're bland, all of them," Grantaire hummed, drinking sadly. "Not one of them is worth a hair on the head of Artemis, the divine Huntress. Though I must say, I prefer her twin brother myself. His song enchants, his visions of the future astound, his eyes rain silver arrows and he's an unearthly beauty to match…"

"Not to be ogled over by mortals," Combeferre completed the sentence, his voice dangerously even.

"Then let the gods themselves punish me," Grantaire snapped. "None of your business whom I venerate."

Joly cast a worried look at Enjolras, who was tranquilly brushing the rim of his glass, still half-full. "Well, Combeferre, your audience is waiting," he said.

"Yes," Courfeyrac laughed, "tell us about an admirable woman if you want, but let her be one that you knew personally."

"I remember one such woman," Enjolras suddenly said. He caught Combeferre's glance, held it for a moment, was satisfied of his friend's approval and continued. "You knew her too, Courfeyrac, did you not?"

Bossuet lurched forward, Joly automatically putting out an arm to prevent an accident. "Who is this extraordinary creature that even Enjolras admires?"

Courfeyrac mulled. "I knew a lot of women, you know," he said, winking. "Which one?"

"Her name was Madame Duplessis."

OOO

Combeferre shut the door with his foot, then deposited the mixed load of medical textbooks, a lithotome, a new book on Chinese poetry, a fetching silhouette portrait and a box of moths on the table.

A moth emerged from the open cardboard box, fluttered its wings in disgust and flitted over to the window.

"Combeferre, get your moth off my book."

Enjolras was sitting curled up on the wide windowsill, half hidden by the burgundy curtain. Combeferre pulled the curtain aside to let in the January sun and picked up the moth by the midsection, taking care not to damage the delicate wings.

"Last time I tried to do that it stung me."

Combeferre chuckled, setting the moth back into the box. "That was a single-spine larvae. This one is a wooly bear, it's harmless. Only double-spine larvae are dangerous, their spines are toxic."

"The ones in your cravat drawer?"

"Enjolras," Combeferre sighed. "You know very well that the ones in the cravat drawer are beetles. _Agabus congener_, to be precise."

"Mhm."

Combeferre busied himself over the kettle. He knew without asking that Enjolras had not gone to breakfast in the Musain but stayed in the same position since six in the morning.

When he brought over the steaming cup Combeferre was greeted by a raised eyebrow and a pair of uncomprehending blue eyes.

"Tea," he explained patiently. "It's two o'clock. Have you eaten?"

"There were madeleines in the cupboard," Enjolras said, shrugging his shoulders, and balanced the cup on his knees. "I was busy."

Combeferre sighed. "They are nearly a week old. What are you reading?"

"The Napoleonic Code. I'll be called to answer on it tomorrow." Enjolras wrinkled his nose and took a sip of tea. "Naturally I disagree on many points, but now that I have resumed my classes I need to make an effort."

Though his friend was now almost twenty years old, he seemed still the same first-year student Combeferre had first met in the summer of 1826.

"How much have you left?"

"A lot. I couldn't resist finishing that Saint-Just you brought yesterday."

"I suppose... you won't be at the Duplessis' _soirée_ this evening then? I could stay and examine you or - "

Enjolras shook his head, then tried to straighten his legs in the cramped space of the windowsill, having clearly forgotten all about the teacup still resting on his knee. Combeferre lunged to steady it.

"I wouldn't have gone anyway," Enjolras said, smiling gratefully. "You know I don't like that sort of thing. Go without me and regale yourself."

Combeferre stroked the curtain, feeling uneasy. "If you promise me you'll eat dinner."

"I've people to see in the Musain. Dinner will happen."

Though Combeferre had just proposed to miss the gathering at the Duplessis' in so off-hand a manner, there was in fact only one person for whose sake he would do it. Seeing as that one person gave him repeated assurances that he did not need his company for the evening and had in fact begun to shoot vaguely annoyed glances above his book, Combeferre put on his best green waistcoat, a matching cravat, spent a longer time than necessary brushing his hair, rescued Enjolras from a _rhinotia hemistictus_ and finally set out towards his destination.

"How good to see you here, Monsieur Combeferre," the hostess smiled, giving him her hand. "Some of our _thèmes du jour_ require your expert knowledge to resolve."

"I assure you, Madame Duplessis," Combeferre said, trying to keep his voice steady, "the pleasure is all mine. Has your husband made any progress on anaesthetics?"

"We've been in the laboratory all week, with Monsieur Soubeiran kindly joining us. Personally I am for the purification of diethyl ether, but Pierre insists that the key task is to form compounds of methane."

"I wouldn't have thought that trihalomethanes would come under consideration in this problem. After all there is little useful connection between formaldehyde and alkanes or aryls."

"Precisely," Madame Duplessis laughed, sending a wave of _lepidopterae_ through Combeferre's stomach.

Madame Duplessis's husband was one of the most intelligent and convivial men that Combeferre has ever had the fortune to know. However, that only made Combeferre feel worse about harbouring certain feelings towards his wife.

He never thought that such a fate would befall him. He, Combeferre, the polymath and expert on _bombyx mori_, in love with a married woman? That was as ridiculous as it sounded. And yet it took him no longer than a month in the company of that remarkable, but unfortunately married lady to realise that such affairs did not fall only under the jurisdiction of Courfeyrac.

He tried to relieve himself by insisting that it was not her appearance that drew him to her, though in the truth of the matter she was extraordinarily beautiful. She was still very young, only five years older than Combeferre himself, with luxuriant coffee-coloured tresses sensibly gathered up away from corrosive chemicals, and the brightest, most intelligent eyes Combeferre has ever seen in a woman. And yet all that was not important in the least when compared with the fact that she had an answer for a question such as "what is your favourite molecule" and saw the attractions of caterpillars.

All this mattered very little when Combeferre had to watch himself constantly so as to not offend Pierre who was a thorough chemist and did not, in fact, see the attractions of caterpillars. In his weaker moments, he tried to persuade himself that having a deeply intellectual conversation with a married woman was in no way adulterous. Yet his honesty prevented him from succumbing to those seductive arguments. It made no difference whether the extreme pleasure he experienced in her company stemmed from an exchange of looks or a kiss or a metaphorical union of the soul in an academic discourse.

Therefore, when the _soirée _was over and Combeferre walked slowly back to their apartment in the Rue des Charbonniers-Saint-Marcel, in his mind a decision was already fermening. He must never go back and face temptation, however hard it might be, regardless of how much his heart might protest.

His pocket watch showed past 12 o'clock when Combeferre reached his landing. He opened the door quietly, hoping that Enjolras would already be asleep, and was confronted with the latter curled up in an armchair, once again in a distinctly cat-like position. The scene was lit up by a single candle, already no bigger than a fist.

"What are you doing?"

"Reading," Enjolras said nonchalantly, not looking up. "Also waiting for you."

"It's past midnight."

"It's only midnight. How was the _soirée_?"

Combeferre couldn't stop himself from sighing. Never again will Enjolras ask him that question, never again will he discuss trihalomethanes and Chinese poetry with _her_, never again will those eyes smile at him in a way that only they could… The pity of it!

"Well?"

Combeferre turned around, reprimanding himself for letting all this nonsense distract him. "It was fine. Very interesting. You ought to have been there."

"Combeferre?"

Over the years of their friendship Combeferre got used to Enjolras's patterns of speech, sparse and Puritanical except for when he was making speeches. He knew, therefore, that this "Combeferre?" together with that questioning look and the tilt of the head translated approximately as: "_Don't be silly, come here and tell me what's wrong_."

Combeferre obeyed, pulling himself another armchair. The thought of lighting the fire crossed his mind. Then he sat down, his elbows on his knees, avoiding Enjolras's glance, not even knowing how to start formulating his feeling into comprehensible words.

"I believe you should stop going there," Enjolras suddenly spoke. "She's a very admirable woman, yes. I think well of her myself. Yet it must not go on, you know that."

Combefere looked up at him with a start. He was of the impression that Enjolras was blithely oblivious to all this vexation. How did he know? Was it that obvious?

"However," Enjolras continued, seeing that Combeferre remained silent, "you have your work, your studies, your moths. You have us." He reached out for Combeferre's hand with a smile. "I may know very little about affairs of the heart, yet I know that you will pull through."

It had been unnecessary for Combeferre to explain anything to his friend; it was now equally unnecessary to express his gratitude in words. A simple look and a clasp of the hand holding his was enough.

The words have served their purpose. The dismal shadows lurking around Combeferre's heart have lightened. There were only two ways in which Grantaire's comparison between Enjolras and Apollo was true - the golden curls and the mystifying ability to speak of the future as if his words were not predictions but facts recited from some cloud in the sky.

"It is true that I know nothing of science," Enjolras said, quieter, "but I can still make you a cup of tea and then you'll explain to me the beetles and the wooly sheep."

"The beetles and the _what_?"

"You know," Enjolras insisted earnestly, "those moths you brought today. The ones that don't sting because they don't have a spine."

Combeferre laughed like he hadn't in weeks. Enjolras was right. He had his friends, his patients, and now apparently his spineless wooly sheep.

OOO

"I remember," Courfeyrac said. "She is hard to forget. Although personally, I admit I was always vaguely intimidated by women that are clearly cleverer than myself."

Bahorel laughed. "Because they see through your attempts to woo them?"

"Because our little circle provides all the intellectual and political stimulation that I need. How would I relax if my mistress starts reciting Rousseau?"

An ironic smile appeared on Enjolras's lips. "More intellectual and political discussion gets done in lecture halls than in this room."

"I beg to differ," Bossuet exclaimed. "Even I, as scientific as I am lucky, know the taxonomic sequence of the moths Combeferre keeps in his cravat drawer."

"Bossuet, you are wrong," Enjolras said calmly. "The ones in the cravat drawer are beetles. _Agabus congener_, to be precise."

Combeferre hid a smile. "There are a few _laccophili_ too. I've acquired them since you moved to your new lodgings."

"I personally was always fascinated by the _dermatobia hominis_," Prouvaire said with a sweet smile. "Particularly when in conjunction with the human brain. I believe I have written a dozen poems on this subject."

Joly went pale and clutched both his empty glass and Bossuet's arm. "Isn't it the one… that one which…" He couldn't finish and Bossuet patted him comfortingly on the back.

"Yes," Prouvaire nodded earnestly, "the one that feeds on various parts of your body in its larva form. Isn't it riveting? Imagine it consuming your brain and becoming at one with your thoughts."

"It's just like Poland," Feuilly suddenly said, "only instead of becoming at one, the parasite sucks the lifeblood out of it."

"Like the Orléanist government," Enjolras nodded, "leeching on the people's attempt to free themselves from oppression."

Bahorel let out a deep sigh. "Only these two could make a political metaphor out of a random revolting insect."

"_Mon cher_," Prouvaire cooed, "that wordplay is worthy of Byron. Do you mind if I use it in my next poem incorporating the _dermatobia_ and popular rebellion?"

Joly wiped the sweat off his forehead and decided to change the subject. "What happened to Madame Duplessis in the end?"

It was Combeferre who answered. "There were complications in the birth of her first child. She didn't survive them."

Enjolras met his glance. "Her laudable memory lives on."

Courfeyrac filled his own glass, passing round the bottle, then raised it. "To the charming Madame then, and to all worthy women!"

All drank, Enjolras included. The grandfather clock by the map of revolutionary France rang eleven.

"Eleven already," Courfeyrac exclaimed, "and only three of us have told their story. We'd better hurry up if we don't want the last tale to greet the dawn. Joly, you next."


	4. Joly's Tale

_"Eleven already," Courfeyrac exclaimed, "and only three of us have told their story. We'd better hurry up if we don't want the last tale to greet the dawn. Joly, you next."_

"By all means," Joly laughed. "As far as I'm aware, I am the only one here who can boast of a stable and joyful relationship, since even Courfeyrac is having difficulties."

"Well," Courfeyrac scowled, "we'll see about that."

Joly stretched his legs out with a smug smile. "There is nothing to see, my dear Courfeyrac. I always thought it was quality, not quantity, if you know what I mean."

"And there's no doubt about that," Bossuet nodded, "though the lovely Musichetta is a very quantitive girl, in all respects."

"It must be a couple of years that you've been hanging around her," Bahorel laughed. "Aren't you bored yet?"

"Bored?" Joly exclaimed. "Bored? I'm as mad about her as ever and it's been four years, very nearly. Well, in August it will be four years since I first laid eyes on her. It took me six months to persuade her to stop avoiding me."

"Well, you did," Bossuet laughed, "with a bit of my help, don't forget."

"She must like playing nurse," Courfeyrac said.

"On the contrary," Joly sighed, "she kicks me out of her apartment every time I tell her that I exhibit signs of cholera or meningitis or anything remotely life-threatening, warning me not to come back until they disappear."

Bossuet put an arm around Joly's shoulders, nearly poking his eye out in the process. "So you go home and complain about them all to me."

Joly rubbed his eye, mumbling something about closed globe injury, then continued with a grin. "But then I suppose by this point even if I do get bored of her, she won't even let me say it, let alone actually leave."

OOO

It was during the first showing of _Le comte Ory_ at the Salle Le Peletier, as the comic opera was reaching its romping finale, that Joly noticed the rosy girl with shining black ringlets, laughing infectiously. His heart palpitations had been distracting him from fully enjoying the spectacle and to his distress they now increased threefold.

Joly spent the rest of the time casting rapid glances at the girl in question, who he also discovered to be in possession of mischievous black eyes, arching eyebrows and full lips whose redness her blue satin dress accentuated to perfection.

"Jolllly," Bossuet whispered, "you're missing the fun."

"Eagle," Joly whispered back, "the fun is in that direction."

Joly could swear that the girl returned his glances more than once during the finale and even when she was enthusiastically clapping at the curtain calls. And yet, when the two friends slid after her across the marble floor of the foyer she gave no indication that Joly was of more interest to her than the binoculars she held in her gloved little hand.

"After her," Bossuet hissed, almost losing his balance on the slippery marble.

"_Mademoiselle_," Joly called out, finally catching up with the blue figure and nearly entangling his cane in her skirts.

The girl deftly pulled the fragile material away and gave Joly a cold look. "Pardon me, _monsieur_?"

"I…" Joly floundered, "I wondered what you thought of the opera, _mademoiselle_."

"I'm afraid I don't relate my opinions to strange men, _monsieur_," she cut him off. "_Adieu_!"

"That went well," Joly groaned as he watched the ringlets and the blue skirt disappear in the crowd.

"Better than I would have done," Bossuet shrugged his shoulders. "It was probably my company."

Joly rubbed his nose with his cane. "Eagle, I feel an onslaught of rheumatism coming on."

"It probably means rain. A shower of gold, I hope."

The next time Joly and Bossuet went to Le Peletier was in September, as a part of Courfeyrac's plans to celebrate Combeferre's birthday. Even Enjolras graced them with an appearance, enticed by accounts that the opera they were to see, _La muette de Portici_, contained the following lines, repeated over and over in an aria:

"_Sacred love of the Patrie/give us audacity and pride,/to my country I owe my life,/it owes me its liberty!_"

Minutes before the show was due to start, Joly cast a glance across the auditorium through binoculars. They were sitting in a box third closest to the stage on the left and in the one immediately to their right Joly caught a glimpse of a blue dress. Nearly a month had passed and blue dresses still caused those heart palpitations to relapse, much to Joly's distress.

Even now Joly thought it best to adjust the focus and stop unnecessary strain of the cardiac muscle by assuring himself that it was not at all the girl with the ringlets and eyes teasing and mysterious as a fortune teller's.

Then occured a shock that must have caused unreparable damage to the myocardium.

"Bossuet," Joly hissed, "Bossuet, look, it's her!"

After the show, Joly realised that it was unwise to go chasing after young ladies when Enjolras was present and whistling the revolutionary aria, perfectly in tune and seeming ready to admonish anyone who was admiring eyes and lips instead of the distant future. He simply resolved that he would come to the opera every night if necessary, blowing his entire half a year's allowance on tickets if that's what it took.

In the next few months there wasn't a week when Joly and often Bossuet weren't at Le Peletier. _Moïse et Pharaon_, _Le siège de Corinthe_, _Così fan tutte_, _Don Giovanni_, _La buona figliuola_, _Le nozze di Figaro_, _Die Zauberflöte_, all merged themselves chaotically in Joly's mind. He soon established that the girl could be seen at Le Peletier every Friday night without fail and therefore, however much he seemed to be dying of influenza, pharyngoconjuctival fever or hepatic cirrhosis, Joly dragged himself to the theatre every singe time. And every single time after curtain fell the blue dress swiftly moved away from him.

Once, still a little drunk from the entracte, Joly dared to follow her home to a quiet street in the Marais quarter. After stealthy enquiries from the talkative portress he discovered that the girl's name was Mademoiselle Musichetta Colombini, a music teacher and an orphan, living in her childhood apartment that she inherited after her father's death two years ago.

"I feel as if I know her intibately," Joly sighed, "and yet she dever spoke a word to be sidce that day."

Bossuet appeared through the doorway with a steaming cup of tea, picking his way through the piles of medical encyclopaedias on the floor at the speed of a turtle. Having finally arrived at Joly's bedside table he set down the cup with a relieved moan, causing a few drops to spill out after all.

"Well, we can consider this a success," he said, looking apologetically at the stained cover of _A Clinical Study into the West Nile Virus_. "Lady Luck must have been feeling charitable today."

"Busichetta," Joly exclaimed, "is it dot the loveliest dabeid existedce?"

Bossuet laughed, sitting down on Joly's bed. "You certainly shouldn't go chasing after her today with your cold. She'll think you're insulting her and that will be the end of it."

"I caddot go chasing after adyone id such a state," Joly gasped, coughing pitifully. "It's all that wretched weather yesterday. The biasba bust have beed bultiplying. I'll be lucky to escape with an iddocuous idfluedza. I could'nt sleep last dight fearing it was sobething like cadcer of the ludgs."

"Come now," Bossuet said, patting his friend on the back, "you don't get cancer from coughing."

"Of course you do," Joly moaned, "one of the sybptobs is a contiduous cough."

Bossuet was about to answer when he heard someone tramping up the stairs. In a few moments Grantaire was poking his head through the door, looking relatively sober and even cheerful.

"Good afternoon," he said. "Joly, are you ill again?"

"Dying. Of a broken heart too."

"What, that little mamselle is still avoiding you?" Grantaire exclaimed, toppling into an armchair in such a way that made Joly doubt how sober he was after all. "Never fear! Entrust all your worries to Uncle Grantaire. I'm already on one mission today and I am sure that Hermes will inspire me for another."

"On what mission?" Bossuet laughed. "To drink a bottle from every café in Paris?"

Grantaire looked insulted. "I'll have you know, L'Aigle de Meaux, that I've quit."

"Since when?"

"Since three o'clock this morning," Grantaire beamed. "Of course, no one noticed that I'm freshly shaved and exceptionally sober, neither Enjolras or anyone else, but then people are blind. _Errare humanum est._ But when I report the success of my mission to Enjolras, he'll be sure to notice."

Joly tried to smile encouragingly. "What bissiod could Edjolras have given you?"

"Well…" Grantaire drew out, shuffling his feet, "he didn't precisely give it to me…" Then his slightly swollen face brightened again. "I anticipated it. I anticipated his wishes. This morning he was wondering where you were. Combeferre said that you were probably ill again. I said to myself: Enjolras wants to know where Joly is. Then I said to myself: Enjolras _will_ know where Joly is. I will tell him myself. So here I am. And in regards to that young nymph that is tormenting you, nothing more simple. Write her a love letter and give it to me to deliver. Then you need only fear that the damsel would be enticed by my charms. However, I am the noblest of men and will not touch that which belongs unto my friend. Not even if she pleads for it. Your paramours are safe with me, my dear Joly. I shall paint her the most pitiful picture of her lovestricken admirer perishing for the lack of a smile from his _belle dame sans merci_. I will tell that cruel Daphne that even Pygmalion could not survive on the cold allure of a statue and that as it is unlikely that the gods would enliven her as they did Galatea it is she that needs to - "

"Please, Gradtaire," Joly wheezed. "By head is killing be."

"Ah, _ingratia mundi!" _Grantaire exclaimed. "Your ingratitute wounds me even more than that of our beloved leader. He at least has the excuse of being an angel and spending half his time in an extraterrestial universe where all is rainbows and liberty. You, however, considering I have your best interests at heart - "

"Well," Bossuet intervened, seeing Joly wince, "that's not a bad idea, writing her a letter, now that we know her name and address."

"Precisely," Grantaire grinned, "and I volunteer to compose it. I have a thousand love sonnets swarming round my head today."

The letter was written and delivered by Bossuet. Next Friday, Joly wrapped himself in his best and thickest scarf before braving the winds in his weak condition, then headed to Le Peletier, supporting himself with the cane on one side and Bossuet's arm on another.

The enchanting Musichetta still did not allow herself to be approached but Joly was significantly encouraged by an arch smile thrown his way just as curtain fell.

The morning after, Joly and Bossuet joined Grantaire in the back room of the Musain. Two empty bottles were already lined up before him, serving as orchestra for the song he was crooning out of tune.

"I say, Grantaire," Joly remembered suddenly, "didn't you give up drinking some time ago?"

Grantaire sighed loudly enough to make them twitch. "I did. Precisely eighteen hours and seventeen minutes later I realised it was a stupid idea."

"Why, didn't Enjolras thank you for telling him where I was?"

"He nodded to me," Grantaire muttered wistfully. "I lived on that nod for five hours and forty-three minutes. I even began to pick out colours for the different strands of his hair. It would have been a wonderful portrait."

"And then?"

"And then he spent the rest of the afternoon head to head with Combeferre over some stupid extract from Rousseau." The bottle clinked mournfully as Grantaire brushed it aside with indignation. "Rousseau, Shmousseau," he grumbled, "what's so interesting about that? I despise Combeferre. All he does is bore him with his moths. I could have told him every instance of republican opposition in the Roman Empire if he deigned to listen. All the worse for Enjolras! I despise this wine. I despise this world."

Meanwhile Joly feverishly examined his tongue in the mirror. "Look at those bumps, Bossuet," he moaned. "I'm sure they're a sign of something terrible. Maybe even encephalitis. And this week Musichetta is sure to let me talk to her."

"Are there bumps on your tongue, Joly?" Prouvaire asked casually, floating into the room.

"Yes," Joly said warily. "Why?"

"Oh, I read a few weeks ago that it's a clear sign of your body being contaminated by planetary dust. But I'm sure it's not deadly. The worst thing that will happen is that your skin will glow like the surface of the Moon."

OOO

"Women are often like that," Courfeyrac said philosophically. "First they make you chase after them, prove your dedication and so forth, then you have tread carefully and be on your best behaviour. But if you persevere, they shall cling to you, faults and all."

Prouvaire sighed. "That's what one calls true love."

"Or true patience," Bossuet grinned. "Poor Musichetta has a lot on her hands."

"Yes," Joly said, "particularly seeing as I let you share her."

Combeferre raised his eyebrows. "How is that?"

"Before I tell you about that," Bossuet said, "I need my glass refilled. It is as pitifully empty as my pockets."


	5. Bossuet's Tale

_"Before I tell you about that," Bossuet said, "I need my glass refilled. It is as pitifully empty as my pockets."_

Grantaire seemed to have fallen asleep but staggered upwards as soon as Louison passed by with the bottles. The candles in the skulls shortened by half and were guttering through the eye sockets, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Enjolras put his palm on top of his glass as Louison made a move towards him, then cast a disapproving glance at Grantaire who didn't seem to mind, his troubled eyes wandering fitfully across the room.

"Well," Bossuet said, "my unluckiness spreads to my love life as well. Every time I get a mistress you can bet that three weeks later I will be sharing her with someone else."

"So he might as well share mine from time to time, when his fortunes are particularly low," Joly nodded.

"And she doesn't mind?"

"After all Jolllly is so frequently ill that any girl would feel neglected if there was no back-up," Bossuet laughed. "And though she was so unreachable when we first began chasing after her, she demands a lot of attention now that we've got her."

"What does she say about your unluckiness?" Bahorel asked.

"She bears with it, on the condition that it is manageable."

"She did throw you out that time you broke her favourite vase," Joly laughed. "You didn't dare to show your face there for three weeks after that."

"Well," Bossuet shrugged his shoulders, "she has no right to complain any more. The vase I gave her in return is vastly superior to that old and cracked one."

"It was her mother's."

"Vases or not," Grantaire slurred sleepily, "that's a laudable arrangement. What would you say to a third member of your coalition? It was my idea to write her that letter after all."

"Pity the girl!" Courfeyrac exclaimed. "She has enough to handle with these two prodigies, is it humane to add yourself into the mixture, Capital R?"

"You can come for a chat," Joly said charitably, "she has a talent for cheering people up."

OOO

"That is enough!" his mistress shouted. "I cannot bear this any longer, Monsieur Lesgles! In the three weeks that I've been with you, I've had nothing but misfortunes. You made us late to _Les noces de Gamache_, my favourite ballet; you spilt coffee on my best silk dress; you nearly poisoned my lap-dog; you broke my perfume bottle; you got robbed the day we were meant to go to the theatre; you sent me a revolutionary leaflet instead of a love letter; in short, you have made me the most miserable of women."

Bossuet remained silent, resisting the urge to take cover until the storm passed. He did not even know the reason for this sudden outburst. The previous accusations were perfectly justified, he admitted that, but what was it now? The evening had been going so well. It had not rained on the way back from the opera, he had not stepped on the infernal dog, the flowers had not wilted, he did not cause her any bodily damage while kissing her… In fact, Bossuet realised, the root of the problem was probably the fact that he was already congratulating himself on his success.

"I am an angel," the girl continued, "a veritable angel, a martyr, to have suffered through all this and not sent you packing. Do you think I don't have enough admirers? Heavens curse the day I chose you over that charming young man from the Sorbonne. I must have been out of my wits!"

"Amélie, my dearest," Bossuet tried to intervene, "I really don't understand - "

"Don't pretend to be innocent! You know well enough what the matter is!"

"Well, I…"

The feeble attempt was cut off by a sharp slap. "You dare to deny it? You have been double-crossing me, replacing me, cheating on me - "

"Cheating?" Bossuet cried, thunderstruck. "My angel, I assure you - "

"You always _assure_ me!" Amélie declared, hands on her hips. "You do nothing but _assure _me! Well, I'd like to see you _assure _me that this" - she thrust out a fist clutching several hairs - "did not come from that concubine of yours!"

Bossuet examined the offered hairs with panic. "Well, it's - "

"Just don't try to tell me it came from your own head," Amélie hissed. "You have no hair to speak of! And whose else could it be if not yours or that little whore? Don't even try to make me believe you have friends that drape themselves over you!"

As a matter of fact he did, Bossuet thought, bringing to mind an ordinary day at the back room of the Café Musain. "I…"

"Not another word," she shouted. "Out!"

A minute later Bossuet was kicked out of the apartment, his coat flying after him. He trailed dejectedly down the stairs, cursing his luck. Who could he thank for this new twist of fortune? He walked out of the building, sat down on a nearby bench and began his deductive investigation.

The hair was rather long and delicately blond. The likeliest source of hairs on his jacket was Joly but his thick chevelure was decidedly auburn. Combeferre's hair was dark brown and quite short, Courfeyrac's was lighter but still much more chestnut than this one. Grantaire, another person whose head often came in contact with Bossuet's shoulders, was of a much darker colouring. He thought of Enjolras, but the hair was really not spectacularly blond enough and a bit too long.

His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar and welcome voice:

"My dear Bossuet, what are you doing here? Aren't you meant to be on an amorous _rendez-vous_?"

Bossuet patted the bench space beside him and Joly sat down, peering at him with concern.

"My friend, I am now mistress-less," Bossuet announced in a funereal voice. "That which had been my mistress has triumphally kicked me out of her house."

Joly pursed his lips, putting an arm around Bossuet's shoulders. "That's women for you. They don't know what's good for them. Well, come with me to Musichetta, she'll make you feel better."

"Not sure I could bear that much domestic bliss right now," Bossuet quipped.

Nevertheless, the offer was accepted and soon they were in Musichetta's little drawing room, furnished sweetly with cherry wood, green wallpaper and porcelain statuettes. A piano stood along one of the walls, a heap of sheet music on top.

"Well, boys," Musichetta said with a coy smile, "how long will that powder keg stand in my wardrobe? It rather spoils the pleasure of opening it."

"Come now, Chetta," Joly said, putting an arm around her waist, "I fully reimburced you. Doesn't that lovely little bonnet gladden your heart?"

"It does," she agreed, "that is the only reason why I tolerate that monstrosity. Did your leader really tell you to hide it among my hat boxes?"

"Enjolras said to hide it," Bossuet laughed. "It was Joly who thought of hat boxes."

Joly raised his hands in defence. "What _sergeant de ville_ would think of raiding an innoctuous and charming music teacher?"

"Is that so?" Musichetta smirked. "By the way, I keep wondering, which one is Enjolras? Is he the one with the glasses and the clever expression?"

"No," Joly laughed, "that's Combeferre."

"That curly-haired dandy is too cheerful looking for a leader," Musichetta pondered. "Is it the magnificent blond who looks like the archangel Michael? He's too handsome to be leader, half the opera hall was looking at him instead of the stage."

"Ah, Musichetta," Joly moaned, "beware of the green-eyed monster!"

"You, jealous?" Musichetta laughed. "At least you would strangle me more efficiently than Othello did Desdemona."

"I could not strangle a kitten, let alone you," Joly said, stroking her neck. "But any time you praise the looks of some cad I experience terrible hypertension and you can only imagine what damage that causes my blood vessels."

Bossuet had forgotten all about his _troubles_ _de coeur_.

"After all," he was saying in the Musain the next morning, "it was doomed from the start. Any woman who minds terribly if her lap-dog is trodden on cannot possibly be paired with me."

"I only wonder who the hair belonged to," Joly mused. "Maybe it's Enjolras's after all?"

"Too dark," Bossuet shook his head. "Plus I don't precisely go around hugging Enjolras. He's not terribly huggable."

"Unless you're Courfeyrac."

"Courfeyrac hugs everything and everyone. Even that young dreamer Marius who is as huggable as a three-metre spike."

Their conversation was smothered out by the entrance of Bahorel and Prouvaire.

"Jehan, much as I admire Lord Byron and much as I mourned his death, I don't think we should start elaborate rituals to bring him back to physical being."

"At the very least," Prouvaire beamed, "we will be able to communicate with his spirit. I got the instructions from the most ancient manuscript. All we need is oil of violets, beetle wings, a circle of candles, some incantations and burnt hair from the demander."

"You'll be as bald as Bossuet if you continue pulling out your hair at this rate."

Bossuet sat up with a jolt and stared at Prouvaire. It was funny that he didn't think of it earlier. The poet's Romantic hairstyle was just about shoulder-length and a light but regrettably mousy blond tint.

OOO

"I don't need cheering up," Grantaire declared. "I am the cheerfullest man in France. I am as comic as Plautus. I can walk into the middle of a tragedy and cheer everyone up like Aegeus in _Medea_. I can sing and dance too, like the chorus line in operettas."

"It is only to be pitied, then," Enjolras said quietly, "that with such talents you are unable to be of any practical use."

"I'll audition to the ballet," Grantaire retorted, gesturing extravagantly, "then you won't have the right to say I'm of no use. Thousands of lonely souls prance around the Paris stages to the great amusement of the _grand bourgeois_, thus being of the most direct and practical use."

"Well," Bahorel whistled, "you certainly won't be lonely then. Ballet dancers rake it in. You'll have enough girls to last you a lifetime."

"Now that we're talking of ballet dancers," Prouvaire struck in, "I remember my passionate love affair with one of those. It seems to be my turn, so I will tell you all about it."


	6. Prouvaire's Tale

_"Now that we're talking of ballet dancers," Prouvaire struck in, "I remember my passionate love affair with one of those. It seems to be my turn, so I will tell you all about it."_

Courfeyrac leaned forward, trying to smother a laugh. "You, a passionate love affair? I thought you were more for ethereal and symbolic unions of the soul."

"Why," Prouvaire smiled whimsically, "the one is not necessarily divorced from the other. In fact, the most passionate love affairs are always unions of the soul, and as such ethereal and symbolic."

"Precisely," Feuilly suddenly said. "The best paintings are entirely symbolic yet they contain a part of the artist's heart and soul. You pour yourself into it. It's far more passionate than some love affair."

"My dear Feuilly," Prouvaire cooed, "you understand me perfectly. This is precisely what happened between me and that lovely ballerina. We had an immediate revelation. We knew that we were treading on the border of something mysterious and beautiful. It was one of the happiest moments of my life."

OOO

Prouvaire dropped on his knees, gazing at the ravishing woman. She did not return his lovestruck appeal communicated silently through the ether but he could swear that the edge of her sensuous mouth curved up just an inch. The white satin dress encircled her tiny waist as lovingly as the petals did the gynoecium while a garland of embroidered flowers ran across her bosom to the very edge of the tulip-shaped skirt, then flared upwards at the crook of the arm. The dainty wrist, thrown delicately aside, and the stocking-clad ankle, just visible under the shadowy folds of the dress, sent Prouvaire into raptures of joy.

When he had collected himself a little, he looked at the bronze plate under the Woman's feet. Her name was Marie de Camargo.

"And I'm Prouvaire," he said, his voice still quavering with admiration, "Jean Prouvaire, though I prefer to be called just Jehan." It was impolite to remain unintroduced.

Marie did not answer but her eyes glistened, tremulous and playful like those of a seal. Already Prouvaire could feel their love shimmer as the rays of sunrise.

"Pardon me, _monsieur_," an abrupt voice barked above his head, breaking off Prouvaire's adoring trail of thoughts.

Prouvaire looked up, batting his eyelashes, and saw a very ordinary man wearing a tasteless grey cravat, with a woman in a garish bonnet on his arm.

"Oh, I apologise, _monsieur, madame_," he said, still in his kneeling position. "You must be wanting to admire Marie as well. Look at her, isn't she enchanting?"

"Very," the man said impatiently, not sparing Marie even a glance. "However, it is not the only painting in this museum and therefore I would kindly beg you to let us through."

Only consideration for Madame made Prouvaire restrain himself and not take the revenge for the injuries that Marie's name has suffered. Instead he moved forward slightly, off the carpeted path, dismissing the man with a contempuous flick of the head.

"Oh, just one of those students," he heard the man reply to the woman's hushed query. "Lazy idlers who do nothing but drink and pretend to have intelligent conversations all day."

Prouvaire shrugged his shoulders and turned back to Marie. "Ignore those dunces, my love," he said soothingly. "They have so little understanding in those brains of theirs that it is surprising how they manage to button up their jackets."

The next morning Prouvaire was clipping the best violets he could find in his windowsill garden, preparing them into a beautiful tribute for Marie. He had spent the night composing a sonata on his flute but out of consideration for the other visitors of the Musée du Luxembourg he decided not to perform it there and then. Instead he would leave her the sheet music; Prouvaire had no doubt that Marie was thoroughly accomplished in all the fine arts.

"Magnificent," Ibrahim the parrot croaked, "magnificent."

"Don't you think so?" Prouvaire beamed. "Be a darling, Ibrahim, and pass me that purple ribbon to tie these up."

Ibrahim obeyed, flying across the room with the ribbon in his beak. His colourful body was almost unintelligible when viewed against the mural of a mediaeval hunt painted on the walls.

"Oh, you believe that yellow would suit them better?" Prouvaire inclined his head sideways, considering the matter. "You are perfectly correct. Now, what do you think I should wear? You too, Lobeira, I need to look especially dashing today."

Ibrahim and the black cat Lobeira put their wits together and produced a splendid ensemble of a purple doublet embroidered with silver stars and lilies, military trousers with red stripes at the seam, brown riding boots and a green velvet cylinder. Prouvaire waltzed out of his apartment, admiring glances landing on him at every corner.

His breath began to tighten as he ran up the steps of the Musée du Luxembourg and through the heavy doors. His heart pounded as the corridors flew by, filled by scenes that would normally enchant him but now paled in comparison with…

Prouvaire stopped short, staring at the empty space where Marie was yesterday.

He looked around to check if she hadn't just gone for a promenade. The same faces as yesterday looked back at him with expressions of pity or disapproval and She was nowhere to be found.

The blank wall smiled maliciously at Prouvaire as he stood, thunderstruck, the violets falling forgotten to the floor.

"A problem, _monsieur_?"

Prouvaire turned and saw the museum curator.

"Where is she?"

"Who?"

"Marie," Prouvaire whispered, blinking away tears. "Marie de Camargo. Where is she?"

The curator sighed. "The royal commissioners have been here yesterday. That painting used to belong to the Duc d'Orléans."

"And they have taken her away?"

"They have restored her to her rightful owner."

Prouvaire turned on his heels and marched out of the Musée. He wandered on the streets, directionless. He would have gone to the Musain, there he was sure to find sympathy in his righteous anger, but the back room would be deserted at this time of the day.

He looked up and found himself staring at the Palais-Royal, official residence of the Duc d'Orléans. Without noticing it he had crossed the river. The Palais de l'Égalité, as it was called during the Revolution, to match the inclinations of its owner the Duc. What kind of _égalité_ could one believe in, Prouvaire thought angrily, if one buys up works of art and hides them away from the people? He shook his fist at the Palais and went on.

Almost immediately he heard steps running after him.

"You'd better be careful," a familiar voice said.

Prouvaire turned and saw Feuilly. It was unusual meeting their newest lieutenant on the streets in daytime. In fact, it was the very first time Prouvaire met him anywhere except the Musain.

"The police are on their guard," Feuilly continued. "They know that an insurrection is in the works. The Bourbons are frightened. You ought to be careful. They could arrest you for that fist."

Prouvaire sighed. "You're right. It's just that I'm feeling particularly incensed against the Bourbon pigs today."

"This is disgraceful," Feuilly said after hearing what had happened. "Art cannot be owned. It's the expression of feelings and ideas and they cannot be owned."

The cannon in the Palais rang, signalling midday.

"I have to run," Feuilly said, starting up. "That's my free half hour finished."

Prouvaire turned back to his apartment. Once inside, he tried playing the sonata he had composed but found it too painful. Instead he took up his chisel. The miniature piano he was crafting out of skull bone still required a lot of work.

"Don't worry, my love," Prouvaire said, convinced that whereever she was, Marie could still hear him. "Things cannot remain this way for long. A few more months, then the revolution will erupt. When we win, we will surely be reunited once again."

OOO

"A painting?" Courfeyrac exclaimed. "You were in love with a painting?"

"Oh, she was far more real than many people are," Prouvaire said. "I suppose she was technically painted, yes. Though if everyone had such an expression in their eyes, we wouldn't need revolutions."

"Precisely," Grantaire muttered. "If this bloody world was like it is in paintings…"

"But it is not," Combeferre cut him off. "That is what we are fighting for, to make the world resemble the ideal."

"Even better," Enjolras said. "It shall not resemble the ideal, it shall become it. Paintings are mostly wistful reflections of what life is not. When our work is finished, they will become projections of what life is, or what it can still become."

It was Courfeyrac who broke the respectful silence. "I don't suppose you have seen her again? After all Orléans stole our revolution."

"She is still imprisoned in his Palais," Prouvaire sighed. "Yet I believe it won't be long now until she is released."

Courfeyrac refilled his glass and passed the bottles round. "To her release, then!"

Everyone cheered. Bahorel downed his glass, then leant back on his chair.

"I cannot quite decide what I should tell you," he said. "It all merges together, you see. But there is one incident I remember rather clearly."


	7. Bahorel's Tale

_"I cannot quite decide what I should tell you," he said. "It all merges together, you see. But there is one incident I remember rather clearly."_

"Well," Courfeyrac laughed, "in your long years of studying you have certainly gained a licenciate, if not a doctorate, in womenology."

Combeferre snorted contempuously.

"Paris does that to you," Bossuet said philosophically. "Nowhere is it easier to loaf around than in this magnificent city."

"This incident happened when I was still a relative newcomer to it," Bahorel continued. "It was my first real taste of republicanism, too."

"What, did the lady help you with our noble struggle like my Musichetta?" Joly called out.

"Quite the opposite," Bahorel laughed. "I don't know about now, but women in those days fainted just to hear the word Republic.

OOO

That summer had been his second in Paris. By this time Bahorel had already established the particulars of his studiously unestablished life - 3000 francs a year from his peasant parents, a vow never to appear at the law school unless under dire necessity and acquaintances in every notable café in the city.

The trouble had been brewing for months. Once ignorant of politics, Bahorel now found himself in prime position to follow each grievance and trouble in the capital. In February, censorship was reestablished and personal liberty suspended. In March, legislation was put in place to support this and rumours floated of a planned law granting the vote to a high-paying minority, thus making sure that the ultra-conservatives won in the upcoming elections. In June, the people of Paris have had enough.

The university was behind the _émeute. _It was too early in the reign of the Bourbons for any real underground organisation to be formed, that mostly came in the build-up to the July Revolution. The most that there could be found was a cloud of enthusiastic quasi-students that could be relied on whenever a demonstration was to be mounted. Bahorel was firmly within their ranks.

They did not have much of a plan. An insurrection was not on the cards, instead the aim was to show public discontent, frighten as many bourgeois as possible and escape in one piece.

On the 3rd of June there were bricks through windows, rallying shouts and a couple of fights between not so much republicans and royalists but quarrel-lovers on each side.

On the 4th of June there was a demonstrating column, complete with red flags, that started their march from the Sorbonne, did a little detour round to the Val-de-Grâce and the École des Beaux-Arts to gather up those errant students that did not appear at the rally, then crossed the river on the Pont Neuf, veered a little into the Faubourg Saint-Antoine where they were joined by a few handfuls of workers and a trail of apprentices who did not look older than thirteen, finally headed with decision to the Palais-Royal and the Tuileries.

There a whole section of the army was waiting for them. Shots echoed above their heads as a warning; then one errant bullet hit the right, or the wrong, target.

"Bourbon swine!"

"They shot him! He's dead!"

"On innocent civilians!"

"_Aux armes, citoyens!_"

"Down with the tyrant! Down with bloodshed!"

"_Vive la République! Vive la France!_"

However, _aux armes _was easier said than done when they were no more than four hundred with no arms at all except canes and bricks against two hundred mounted cavalry with swords and muskets. Bahorel fulfilled his Republican duty by knocking three soldiers off their horses, then joined the signals for retreat. Much as he would have liked to fight this out, there was no point in sacrificing lives at impossible odds in a small-scale _émeute._

They fled to all directions, Bahorel himself choosing the less obvious path down the Rue de Rivoli, across the Pont Notre-Dame, through the Île de la Cité, across the river again on the Pont Saint-Michel.

Perhaps it would have been wiser to go north to Montmartre, as there were gendarmes and a troupe of cavalry on the Place Saint-Michel, but Bahorel had figured that it was much easier to lose himself in the Saint-Jacques slums than in the aristocratic Marais district.

Now he was beginning to doubt that decision.

There was a crowd of frightened bourgeois and curious students, so Bahorel weaved his way through them, trying not to attract the attention of gendarmes. One was heading in his direction and Bahorel dived into the nearest café.

It was clear that the gendarmes would come any minute. Bahorel looked around for an escape route. The café's dim foreroom was filled with a tremulous crowd that would offer no refuge from gendarmes. What could he do?

It was then that he saw the girl, huddled in a corner behind a table, looking terrified. She was dressed nicely, as if for some special occasion, in a sheer white dress and a bonnet decorated with cherries, and looked utterly out of place in the smoky, riotous café.

Later, under the influence of _Odyssey-_loving friends, Bahorel would say that he had a sudden stroke of inspiration from bright-eyed Athena.

He pushed his way through to where she sat, then leant towards her with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

"_Mademoiselle_," Bahorel said, straining to be audible above the din, "this place is dangerous for a lady. Allow me to help you out of here."

The brown eyes widened with gratitude and in a minute Bahorel strolled back out onto the Place Saint-Michel with the girl on his arm, looking for all the world like an authority-loving young man and his sweetheart, caught up in an outburst of anarchy.

"What is your name, _mademoiselle_?" he asked, when they were well away from the Place Saint-Michel and were promenading down the Quai des Grands-Augustins into the decidedly safe Faubourg Saint-Germain.

"Bernadette Aubelle."

"_Belle_ you certainly are," Bahorel quipped, and smiled to see a faint blush colour her cheeks. "May I ask what you were doing on your own in that crowd?"

"I was waiting to meet someone," she said.

"And he never materialised?" Bahorel shook his head with a disapproving _tsk_. "Terrible."

Two days later, when the _émeutes_ died down and Parisian life had returned to its ordinary calm, Bahorel returned to the café on the Place Saint-Michel. Its enthusiasm seemed encouraging for a potential watering hole and so he committed the name - Café Musain - to his memory.

The place was much quieter that day. A few book-laden students in one corner, a couple more careless ones with their feet on the table, one maid lazily cleaning the shopwindow.

He had just ordered a cup of coffee, not wanting to drink on his own, when a voice addressed him:

"I'm glad to see you alive and well, _monsieur_."

Bahorel turned around and saw a somewhat unkempt youth, no older than seventeen but with a promisingly muscular frame.

"You see," he added, "I was here on the day of the _émeutes_. I noticed you. You looked rather stressed. That was a nice manoeuvre with the lady. I hoped you'd come out of it fine."

Bahorel smiled. "Perfectly fine. Were you also in the demonstration?"

"Not really," the youth said. "I was observing."

"No royalist sympathies, I hope?" Bahorel inquired cautiously.

"Oh, I'm no royalist," the youth smiled. He was generally of a rather unfortunate appearance, to say the least, but the smile was warm and the eyes looked sensitive and intelligent. "I'm not much of anything politically."

"Why," Bahorel exclaimed, "politics is one of three things that a young man must be interested in. The other two are wine and women."

"Well, that's why I came to Paris," the youth said. "To pick these things up. I've only been here three months. I'm an apprentice of Gros, the painter."

"And do you like Paris?"

"Very much. It's nothing like my home town. Here there is everything a man could hope for. Though I have to say," he shrugged his shoulders, "I'm a little disappointed with the famous _émeutes_."

Bahorel laughed. "Paris is Paris. It stops for nothing, not even _émeutes_. And it's not in every city that you can pick up a girl in the midst of one."

OOO

"Ah," Grantaire cried, "that was a different age. We were happy and innocent and all the politics that the women cared about was Napoleon. Though truly, they still care only about Napoleon."

"That girl's beloved is a cad," Courfeyrac said. "Who arranges a date on the day of an _émeute_?"

"Maybe he didn't know there was one," Joly remarked.

"Then he was either a headless dreamer or a royalist," Courfeyrac laughed, "either way, a cad. A decent man would never leave a girl alone with angry crowds."

"Well," Bahorel said, "that's why she sent him packing soon after. Not without my delicate persuasion, of course."

"Good riddance," Bossuet said, patting Bahorel on the back and overturning a few glasses in the process. "Your turn, Feuilly."


	8. Feuilly's Tale

_"Good riddance," Bossuet said, patting Bahorel on the back and overturning a few glasses in the process. "Your turn, Feuilly."_

Feuilly's pale cheeks reddened. "I've no time for romances," he said. "No need either."

"My dear," Prouvaire exclaimed, "I've told you time and again that love is the most important thing in the world. It is an objective fact that many financially stable or even ridiculously wealthy people still find it all of no use and are miserable for lack of love."

"That's nonsense," Feuilly said, a characteristic touch of hostility appearing in his hazel eyes. "All the problems of the world could be solved by money. If you have money, you'll live longer and better. You wouldn't have to slave away at some factory so you'll have time to read everything you've ever wanted. I don't believe any rich man can be unhappy. It's their own fault for wanting more."

"I would disagree," Enjolras said quietly. "Yourself you said that the rich want more. The problem, then, is not the lack of funds. If all the poor were to become wealthy overnight, it would solve nothing."

"They wouldn't starve or die from basic illnesses," Feuilly said, eyes now flashing with anger.

"And yet they would always want more," Enjolras finished the sentence, as calm as ever. "When such poverty is eradicated forever, if an effort is not made to enlighten the people, if they do not see how greatly improved their position is, if an opportunity is not taken to uplift and secure them intellectually, well, poverty will continue existing."

Combeferre leant forward. "There shall be a strong a division as ever, only it would be based on intellectual and spiritual wealth instead of physical one since the latter will no longer exist."

"The real divisions, I have come to realise," Enjolras continued, "are not in classes, they are in people. In every level of society there are republicans and royalists, intellectuals and philistines, the atheists and the religious, the altruistic and the egoists, the loving and the cold-hearted."

Feuilly remained silent, a stubborn frown still clouding his expression. The events that now appeared in his mind were those of only a week ago.

OOO

Feuilly prised his eyes open with an inward groan and stared at the ceiling in an attempt to make them stay open as his hand groped in the darkness for his watch.

It was five o'clock precisely. There was not even one spare minute in which to collapse back onto the mattress in undisturbed bliss. Feuilly gathered all his strength and sat up.

These dark hours before dawn he hated most. After nightfall there was sleep to look forward to. During the day there was light and if he was lucky, sky a hopeful shade of blue.

There was no time to sit and philosophise, so Feuilly continued doing so while tiptoeing to the bucket and filling his cup with water. His eyes were getting used to the darkness and anyway he knew the layout of the tiny room off by heart. He had to be silent - for the past few years he had been lodging with a large family that let him have bed and board, meagre as it was, for a fraction of the price elsewhere. If any of the younger kids woke up, there would be no peace for the rest. It was a miracle that little Victor was sleeping so well. Feuilly put it down to malnourishment.

Feuilly dressed, as swift, silent and deadly as the pantheras he had been reading about for the last few days. These proved very popular with the kids. Emile and Gustave had spent their evenings chasing after Louise and Madeleine, deafening roars and screams filling the room. In vain did Feuilly try to explain that panthers don't roar but hunt down their prey stealthily and silently. At least they all knew how to spell it now.

He had almost finished gathering up his sparse belongings when something stirred behind him. Feuilly cursed himself and turned around to see the amount of damage he inflicted to their mother's sleep.

Then he sighed in relief. There was just enough light now to see that the figure starting from its bed was that of Paulette. She made a sign that Feuilly supposed meant he should wait for her and reached for her clothes.

The shadows were more than enough to preserve her modesty but Feuilly still turned away. He waited, wondering why his heart was feeling a little compressed, until there was a light tap on his shoulder.

They slid past the various beds and out of the doorway. A few landings down Feuilly finally spoke.

"Why are you up?" he said, for some reason preferring not to look back on her. "You could have slept for an hour more."

"I've decided to start early today," Paulette answered from behind. "A few more sous will come in useful at this time of the year. Lucky you woke me up, Monsieur Feuilly."

They walked out onto the street and there Feuilly had to slow down and let her walk by his side. He did not entirely understand his reluctance. Out of the older kids he had liked Paulette the most. The girl was clever, witty and strong; far stronger than her older brother whom Feuilly had seen more than once in a nearby tavern.

Why then, all of a sudden, when she started working and putting her hair up, Feuilly experienced an unexplicable need to distance himself? In the world that they lived in, at fifteen a girl was grown up. Was it simply because he didn't want to see her struggle with adult life? Yet Feuilly did not expect such cowardice from himself.

Paulette tapped him on the shoulder once more. "Monsieur Feuilly?"

"Yes?" Did he imagine it, or did his voice waver just then?

"Would you do me a favour?" She hesitated, pulled at an auburn curl, then continued with a toss of the head. "I wanted to see that library you take your books from. Maybe I'll read something too. I liked the panthers. Poland as well. I want to know more about that."

"That's not a favour," Feuilly said, "that's a pleasure. We'll go on Saturday when there's more time. I have recommendations on Poland." He'd give her the Book, the first book he had ever read in his life and re-read so many times that he could now recite whole chapters off by heart.

Paulette smiled, then rubbed her arms, shivering. It was still only half past five and her coat was a hand-me-down from Marie's youth.

"I wish I knew as much as you," she said. The cold air livened up her cheeks and brightened her sweet brown eyes. "Then maybe I could be a teacher. It's a good thing, teaching kids. Even if they're squalling brats."

"We're both used to squalling brats," Feuilly chuckled.

She laughed as well and the clear, reckless tones were enough to tell him that she wasn't offended.

They walked out onto the Place de la Bastille, where their paths separated. Feuilly was to cross the square and continue down the Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Antoine where his workshop was while Paulette would turn to the Boulevard Henri-IV and cross the river to the Gobelins.

The sight of the Place de la Bastille put Feuilly into a feverish state of mind. It often did so, yet today his anger mounted especially. Was it for this that the inhabitants of the faubourg rose against the tyrant on the 14th of July? Was it for this that blood was spilt, on these very stones, to rid the country of its parasites? All the sacrifices, all the deaths, and 42 years later here they were on the site of the struggle, as poor as before, as downtrodden as before, with as little chance of liberating themselves as they have always had.

Much as he loved his friends, Feuilly could never entirely understand. What compelled Enjolras, with his immaculate blond curls and innocent blue eyes, to take part in this struggle? Why did Combeferre look up from his corpses and moths to see the begging women on the street? Was Courfeyrac not satisfied with top hats and mistresses? Were street fights not enough for Bahorel? Why would Joly, trembling at the sight of bumps on his tongue, brave the cholera-ridden slums of Saint-Jacques? Why should Bossuet give his last two franc coin to a _gamin_? What was the reason for Prouvaire moving from violets and skulls to sabres and dynamite?

All that Feuilly had to lose was his life and even that did not seem like very much on dark evenings when the wind blew through his shabby garments and bread had not passed his lips for several days. For him, to rebel was never much of a difficult choice. But his friends, all of them, even Bossuet, could live comfortable lives if they wanted to. It was easy enough to ignore the poverty that surrounded them. All their grievances had been resolved a long time ago. Why did they fight a battle that was not theirs?

It was only now that he began to understand, spurred by Enjolras's quiet words that rang through his ears still. In every layer of society there are republicans and royalists, the altruistic and the egoists, the loving and the cold-hearted. There was no difference between him and them except for the physical. They cared for his sort, because there was no 'sort', because they were all one, because brothers had to be helped.

OOO

"Precisely," Courfeyrac said with a warm smile. "Why, our fathers are a prime example. Decent chaps, most of them, yet hardly very enlightened. If all it took was funds and decency, well, this world wouldn't have the problems that it has."

"Speak for yourself," Grantaire sighed. "A thousand lightning bolts won't enlighten my old man. He is as dry as seaweed and as decent as Medusa."

Prouvaire laughed. "And on my part, I was never able to explain to mine why the Masonic ritual is preferable to Christianity, or the delicate delight of sipping wine from a skull."

Bossuet shuddered. "Say what you like, Jehan, but I cannot see the attraction of drinking from a skull."

"Same," Joly said, swaying back and forth to the tune of some unheard music. "Give me a simple, prosaic glass any day. In fact, let me demonstrate to you the joys of wineglasses immediately."

With that, he reached for another bottle. Courfeyrac took another one for his side of the circle.

"Enjolras," he called out, "how long are you going to nurse that one glass? You've been drinking it since we began!"

"It is more than enough," Enjolras said serenely.

"And then," Combeferre added, also refusing a refill, "someone has to make sure that you all get home without broken necks."

"We're not going home yet," Bahorel laughed, "the night has only just begun!"

"And I've not told my story," Grantaire intervened, leaning across Feuilly's knees to perform some sort of manoeuvre, possibly aimed at getting Bahorel's attention. "I've a magnificent tale to tell! Simply dashing. Smashing, I mean. No words have passed Homer's lips that could equal mine!"


	9. Grantaire's Tale

_"And I've not told my story," Grantaire intervened, leaning across Feuilly's knees to perform some sort of manoeuvre, possibly aimed at getting Bahorel's attention. "I've a magnificent tale to tell! Simply dashing. Smashing, I mean. No words have passed Homer's lips that could equal mine!"_

Courfeyrac joined Bahorel in laughing. "Getting slightly above ourselves, Capital R? But go on, we're all listening."

Not quite everyone were listening: Enjolras was whispering something in Combeferre's ear, having pushed his chair a little further from the circle. Grantaire, seemingly undeterred, pressed on.

"It was wonderful," he announced. "She was a nymph to rival one of your exhibits, Courfeyrac."

"Really?" Courfeyrac leaned forward with a good natured smile. "Do tell."

"She was as beautiful as the moonlit sky," Grantaire crooned, with a blissful but slightly ironic smile. "Her locks the colour of raven wing, her eyes as green as the fields of Arcadia, her arms rivalling Hera in their whiteness…"

Bossuet doubled over laughing. "Are you sure she wasn't a friend of the Green Fairy?"

"I assure you," Grantaire exclaimed, "that she was as real as yourself."

OOO

Grantaire had been feeling restless all day. He paced up and down his room, or tried at least, the floor was far too cluttered for pacing. Then he relocated into the Musain where he ordered two bottles of wine in hope that they will soothe him.

While waiting for the effect to hit him, coming particularly slowly today, he doodled on a spare piece of paper. Louison, a wine bottle, Joly and Bossuet all materialised in succession, each as wretched as the other.

"That's great," Joly called out, peering at the paper. "Hey, Bossuet, you look very dashing."

Grantaire was convinced they were just trying to cheer him up but grinned anyway. "L'Aigle de Meaux is always dashing. My poor artistry just brings out his best side."

Bossuet laughed, then looked around. "Where are everyone? I haven't seen Enjolras in days."

Three days precisely, and this was the afternoon of the fourth. Why was the room so dark? The sky outside was a dismal grey and a cruel wind scattered torn newspapers on the dirty pavement. Grantaire yearned for the sun but it was nowhere to be seen, for three days precisely and now the fourth.

Joly shrugged his shoulders and leant back on his chair. "I guess he's busy."

"I am," a voice said from the door, making Grantaire shiver and clasp his glass tighter. He knew without looking up who the owner of that quiet, melodious voice was.

He still looked up, of course. Enjolras stood in the doorway, looking rather tired, as if he had spent the nights hunting with Artemis or reading the future in the embers of the altar. All the pale dew of Elysian mornings seemed to have settled on his normally rosy cheeks.

"I intend to pass the exams this time," Enjolras said, coming in and depositing his books on the table in the opposite corner. "Then there is much correspondence with the Courgourde and several underground newspapers want me to write for them."

Then he sat down and buried himself in his papers, while Grantaire consoled himself that he didn't speak to Bossuet either.

That evening Grantaire was still feeling strangely sober. He would have been content to sit in the Musain all night and admire the way candle light fell on Enjolras's profile but Bahorel had other ideas.

"You need some air," he said, firmly taking him by the shoulder. "Let's take a stroll through the nearest taverns. You've been here all day."

Bahorel looked as if he wouldn't take no for an answer and so Grantaire followed him outside, taking a last look at Enjolras as he went. He never glanced up to see him go.

Later that night, they picked up two female acquaintainces of Bahorel's. The one, blonde and rather pretty, was paired off with Bahorel; the other, dark and somewhat weather-worn, was left to Grantaire.

"I'd have let you take the blonde," Bahorel whispered as they were about to separate, "but I know you don't like them."

It was true. Doing anything romantic with pale blue-eyed blondes felt utterly wrong to Grantaire. He did not know the reason, or if he secretly did, he wouldn't want to state it.

They went back to his apartment, saying good night to Bahorel. Grantaire didn't entirely catch the woman's name and it didn't matter. It was company that he wanted. Women had a peculiar effect of making time pass and the shadows become a little brighter.

The fact that he was practically sober bothered him; when drunk he could at least count on being mildly entertaining. The woman didn't seem to mind, however. All was going well until she looked around at the half-finished canvases that littered the room.

"That's pretty good," she said, pointing at the roaring Gorgons that floundered at one corner. One was missing an arm, the other's face was skewed, the colouring of all three was horribly botched.

Grantaire only grunted in reply. He didn't know why he kept these misfortunes.

The woman got up and started walking around the room. "This one's sweet," she called out, pointing at a vile, blood-spattered meadow. "Those are poppies, right?"

Then she stopped short before another, smaller canvas and inclined her head. "He's pretty," she said, taking up the canvas. "Is that an angel? He's like something out of a stained glass window."

Grantaire stumbled to his feet and snatched it away. That portrait was almost two years old. The only colour was in the hair, different shades of gold still clearly perceptible despite the age.

"Well, good night," he said abruptly. All desire to spend time with the woman suddenly disappeared.

She was surprised but didn't linger. Five minutes later Grantaire went out too. He tried to avoid sleeping in his own bed. If he was in it, likelier than not he was sober, which together with darkness and solitude produced unbearable nightmares.

His feet carried him back to the Musain. The back room had a stairway opening onto the Rue des Grès which was never properly locked at night. There were candles in the Musain and possibly a spare bottle, in any case a table which would be comfortable enough.

Grantaire mounted the steps, opened the door, walked in and stopped short.

The scene was lit by a single candle not much bigger than a stump, standing on a pile of books that was cluttering a table where Enjolras was still sitting buried in work.

He turned around now, looking distracted, smiled, then went back to his books.

Grantaire stumbled to his usual table, replaying the smile in his head over and over again. Then, forgetting about all the bottles in the world, he began to admire the seated figure, tracing his finger against the dusty tabletop to see how he could depict the thick blond locks tumbling over onto his forehead.

He had very rarely seen Enjolras alone in the Musain at night. Usually he went home or to Combeferre's, sometimes on a night mission, other times Grantaire himself was away with Joly and Bossuet or Bahorel.

Grantaire jerked up, realising that he could not waste this opportunity. When else could he talk to him? Here they were alone with each other, Grantaire was hardly even drunk and most importantly, Enjolras smiled at him. He took a deep breath, gathering courage, his heart beating faster than after a boxing match, and tried to rehearse what he would say.

There lay the problem.

What could Grantaire say to Enjolras? Now that they were alone, he wanted something momentous, something that would make Enjolras see that he wasn't just a worthless drunkard incapable of ever serving his glorious Republic, something that would all at once make Enjolras turn to him and give him that warm and eager smile he reserved for Combeferre or Courfeyrac.

He could think of nothing. Enjolras would not want to hear his ramble on mythology or his complaints about the world and there was nothing he had to say about the Republic that wouldn't cause anger.

Neither could he ever voice the thoughts that flitted through his mind, unfinished and incomprehensible.

The only real desire of his soul, was it too much to ask? Would it harm anything or anyone? Wouldn't Enjolras himself benefit from having a chest to lean his head against instead of the hard table?

All that Grantaire had ever wanted from life was love.

He would not care in the slightest if he was poorer than Feuilly and had to slave away at the hardest and dullest of jobs, so long as there was someone that loved him and would accept his love.

For nearly four years the object of that love had been someone that Grantaire could never hope to accept it. He had been perplexed to the extreme when he became aware of it. How could he love Enjolras, a man, and moreover a man whose beliefs he ought to have mocked and scorned?

Now, as he looked upon him with immeasurable tenderness, Grantaire felt that the truth may be within his grasp.

Grantaire was not in love with Enjolras. He would never wish that he had been a woman. None of this ever crossed his mind. What's more, Grantaire had realised from his childhood experiences that there was always a reason for being in love. And what was the reason here?

He admired Enjolras because of his convictions, his determination, his unvarying belief in a golden future that only he could see; because he was the opposite of Grantaire himself; because only near him did Grantaire feel that he could achieve something.

He venerated Enjolras because of his beauty; because of the blue eyes that looked like cornflowers in a wild field, because of the soft locks the purest shade of blond; because he was the only thing he has ever seen that could have come straight out of a painting.

He loved Enjolras just because he did. There was no reason and no name for it.

He loved him, needed him, like one half of a soul needs the other, like the tails of a coin need the heads, like Patroclus needed Achilles and Pylades needed Orestes.

A grating sound cut through his thoughts. Grantaire looked up and saw Enjolras getting up from his chair. He gathered up his books, capped his ink bottle, put his coat back on and headed to the door.

Suddenly Enjolras stopped, turned around and in a few quick paces his shadow was falling on the dusty sketches on Grantaire's table.

"How much longer will you be here, Grantaire?"

"I…" Grantaire mumbled, elated by hearing his name pronounced by that melodic voice that often spoke to him in daydreams but never in real life. "I wasn't disturbing you, was I?"

"You weren't," Enjolras said. "That's not the point. It is almost midnight. You ought to go home."

"I prefer it here," Grantaire said, cursing himself for that stupid grin that surely would irritate Enjolras immediately. "Then I don't have to come back in the morning."

"Why did you come back at all? Didn't you go with Bahorel?"

The happiness Grantaire could have felt at this proof that Enjolras did notice him going after all was overshadowed by the fact that clearly he did not want him in the Musain. Grantaire leant against the table, feeling suddenly as if a boulder was balanced on his shoulders.

"Just let me stay here," he muttered. "It won't cost you anything, would it? You'll be at home sleeping and I'll be here. Everyone's happy."

"It's cold here," Enjolras said, sounding frustrated.

"Precisely," Grantaire murmured tiredly. "You shouldn't stand around in the cold. Good night."

Then he rested his head on his folded arms and closed his eyes.

Drifting in and out of sleep he heard Enjolras sigh, then a minute later his light steps crossed the room. The door opened and quietly shut.

"Good night, angel," Grantaire whispered, safe now that Enjolras could no longer hear him.

OOO

"Of course she was real," Bahorel said, patting Grantaire on the back. "Not sure she was quite _that_ beautiful, but still."

"Ah, what does it signify?" Grantaire muttered dreamily. "All that means something in this rotten world of ours is when we care about one another."

"That is entirely true," Prouvaire affirmed. "However, skulls also mean quite a lot."

Everyone burst out laughing. The fire seemed to have doubled its strength and the shining reflections of the flames could be seen flickering in the glossy surface of Courfeyrac's shoes.

"These stories are magnificent," Courfeyrac exclaimed, raising his glass. "No Chaucer, no Boccacio could ever rival them."

His words were met with an approving hum that dissolved into unconnected chatter. It was Prouvaire that broke through the general noise.

"Look! Look!" he cried, jumping up from his chair which promptly flew into Bossuet's leg. Prouvaire ran up to the window, motioning them to follow. "It's snowing!"

It was. Pressing their faces to the misted window Prouvaire, Courfeyrac and Bahorel could see thick flakes of snow swirling against the dark background of the sky. A gust of wind threw a handful against the window as if in invitation.

"That means one thing," Prouvaire exclaimed.

"War?" Bahorel suggested helpfully.

"Barricades!" Bossuet shouted, clambering up and hauling Joly after him.

"My health!" Joly groaned, clutching Bossuet's arm. "Eagle, think about my health! Is it nice to have a cold on Christmas?"

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger," Courfeyrac called out, tossing his top hat aside. "I sacrifice my new shoes and cravat!"

Feuilly's eyes glittered with enthusiasm. "Barricades, or even a storming of the Bastille."

Grantaire stumbled off his chair. "And a battle of the gods." He waltzed over to Bahorel, teetering and clasping various body parts for support, then gave him a weak punch on the shoulder. "My dear Ares, Dionysus challenges you to a duel."

Combeferre sighed, getting slowly up to his feet. "You will all have colds tomorrow if you roll around drunk in the snow."

In one fluid, graceful motion, Enjolras drained the remnants of his glass and stood up. The flickering shadows obscured his mischievous smile.

"Be lenient, my friend," - and Combeferre could detect a playful note in the serious tone - "it's Christmas after all."

The snow intensified as the nine young men poured out into the backyard of the Musain. Louison went to pick up the empty wine bottles with a fond sigh, the passionate war cries ringing in her ears. In a week's time, she knew, there would be another gathering of the Friends of the ABC, this time to celebrate the coming of a new and momentous year - 1832.


End file.
